


"First date"

by IanMuyrray



Series: Fersali [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, NSFW, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: how they met





	"First date"

In a restaurant in Glasgow, Marsali was sitting alone at a table for two. She pulled a baguette slice apart, flattening the pieces into discs and dropping them onto the small porcelain plate in front of her. She was waiting for someone.

 

It was an upscale French restaurant, the ceiling high with low, dramatic chandeliers and white linen table cloths. Light was dim, tables decorated with floating candles. The wait staff wore ties and vests, the other guests in suitcoats or skirts. She couldn’t pronounce or understand anything on the menu, and she had no idea why the staff spoke in French in the middle of a Scottish city, but that didn’t matter. She had been flattered at the offer of dinner in such an extravagant place.

 

She had met her date on an online dating app. They matched, shared a few jokes, and agreed to dinner. And this guy—he seemed perfect. He had a dog—Marsali loved dogs. (She also loved that he was responsible enough for a dog). He was a Leo—perfect match to her Sagittarius. He knew how to sail, how to cook, how to rock climb. He seemed exciting, brawny, dependable. And he was good-looking, to boot.

 

It had been a while since Marsali’s last relationship, so she was looking forward to tonight, despite the earlier stress of her younger sister dressing her up like a toy doll.

 

Joan had insisted that this teeny dress is what adult women wear on dates with adult men. Marsali had objected—in what reality could she pull off such a tight-fitting outfit—but relented after gazing at herself in a mirror. To her surprise, she liked it. She liked how she felt in it, she liked the attention she drew as she wore it.

 

As the moments passed, though, and her date didn’t arrive, she began to feel ridiculous. She had been here, waiting, for at least an hour.

 

The bobby pins from her bun pricked at her scalp, her hair pulled too tight behind her ears. Her feet had been squeezed into a pair of new heels, and she could feel blisters forming on the balls of her feet. Her dress was tight across the ribs, forcing her to sit impossibly straight to avoid the pinch of underwire in her bra. With each breath came a twinge of dull pain.

 

She occasionally twitched at her hair and plucked at her dress, seeking whatever ease from the discomfort she could get.

 

“ _Excusez-moi, mademoiselle_?”

 

Her waiter was back. A very handsome man, a few years older than her, with a sophisticated face and large, dark eyes. His dark hair was swept into a neat bun, a single curl escaping onto his forehead. His slim waist was accentuated by the black vest of his server’s uniform, and instead of sleeves cuffed nicely at the wrists like his coworkers, he had rolled them up past his elbows. His French sounded real, not undergirded by a Scottish accent.

 

“ _De l’eau_?”

 

She dropped the baguette piece to the table and rolled her eyes. “Oh, bah. Speak English.”

 

He chuckled, then cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “More water, miss?” With one arm behind his back, he held aloft a glass water pitcher, ice clinking.

 

His French accent was real, as she had suspected. She waved her assent, glancing around him toward the door. “Fine.”

 

After filling her glass, he hesitated beside the table, shifting on his feet.

 

“Yes?” she sighed.

 

“Would you like to place your order?” She saw his eyes flick to the empty place setting across from her, then back to her stubborn face.

 

“No, thank ye. I’m waiting on someone.” Pert, she brushed her hands across the napkin on her lap, smoothing it.

 

He nodded. “Perhaps you would like a snack while you wait? Can I offer you a—a cheese plate? Some brie paired with a pinot noir?”

 

She gave him a dry look, then pointed to her full bread basket, thinking about how much she hated baguettes—such a hard, chewy, terrible bread to eat. “This is fine for now.”

 

He leaned in, his face sincere, apologetic. “I am very sorry,  _chèrie_ , but if you do not order anything soon, I have to ask you to give up the table.”

 

Marsali scoffed, attempting to cover the humiliation and anger coiling inside her stomach. The night was lost.

 

“I’ll—I’ll just leave.” She reached behind her chair for her clutch, popped it open. “Please, let me tip ye for your trouble.”

 

“ _Non_ ,  _chèrie._ ”

 

“Well I canna expect ye to just pour my water for free,” she said as she stood, tugging the short hem of her dress. She noticed his eyes following her hands to her thighs, take in her cleavage, then flick quickly up to her face. She smirked.

 

“Well, for my sake, please accept it,” she said, tapping a bill onto the linen cloth. She walked away from him, slowly, taking in the feel of his gaze.

 

She left the restaurant, her body shivering in summer’s nighttime breeze. She glanced at her phone, hopeful for a notification from her date, maybe he’d sent an apology or wanted to reschedule. Her phone screen flashed blank at her, even as she knew there would be nothing there.

 

She stepped forward to the curb, lifting a palm to hail a cab. It flew by her.

 

She spotted a second cab, lifted her palm again. It slowed as it approached, and she reached for the handle.

 

As she did so, she felt a hand curve around the elbow of her other arm. She looked back, startled.

 

It was the waiter. He looked different in the glow of neon signs, his slicked-back hair gleaming like a halo in streetlight.

 

_Damn, is he good looking, or what?_

 

He looked like a goddamned movie star, someone who belonged to the caste of the rich and famous. No, not a movie star, he looked like nobility, or even royalty. He looked like a person who lived in designer clothing, who attended ribbon cutting ceremonies, who marched through a crowd of women that parted and swooned in his wake. He was gorgeous. Had he been carved in marble, his edges and slender lines softened with French romance?

 

And he was touching her, his hand big and warm. He tugged her back from the cab at the curb, which drove away, speeding off in irritation.

 

“Cigarette?” he asked, reaching to his back pocket. He had shed his vest and bowtie somewhere inside, and his white collar now flounced open, exposing his throat.

 

She didn’t smoke, but it didn’t feel important to mention that. “Sure.”

 

“Share one with me?” He grinned, causing her stomach to jump as he flipped open the pack. Oh god… she would probably do anything he asked her to do, she thought, watching him place the cig between his lips and light it, cheeks sucking in with a utilitarian inhale.

 

He held it out to her. “Ladies first.”

 

Feigning confidence, she inhaled and exhaled, mimicking actors from movies she had seen. The smoke rolled white and grey between her and this mysterious man. Sending up a prayer of thanks that she didn’t cough, she handed the cig back to him.

 

“ _Comment tu t’appelles?_ ” His eyes crinkled with wry humor.

 

She recognized that phrase from grade school. “Marsali,” she introduced herself.

 

He put the cigarette between his lips, unbothered by the pink lipstick smear she had left behind and inhaled deep. He closed his eyes, the fiery end lit bright, then he exhaled through his nose—that was called a French exhale, she knew.

 

“ _Et toi?”_ she ventured, the syllables sounding strange in her mouth.

 

He passed the cig back to her, and she puffed, her limbs feeling watery at the passive intimacy of her lips where his had been.

 

“Fergus.”

 

She coughed, choking on smoke. He chuckled as she gave the cigarette back.

 

“ _Fergus?_ That’s no’ verra French, is it?”

 

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Take it up with my Da.” He took a big puff this time, pulling the ember in to the filter. Careful to exhale away from her, he tossed the butt to the sidewalk, extinguishing it with the heel of his dress shoe.

 

With a sudden sense of loss, Marsali patted at her hair, the damn bun that pulled and strained against her crown.

 

The vibration of nicotine through her nerves encouraged her to pull the pins and shake her hair free. It rippled around her, loose, curling at the ends from being folded into a twisted style. She sighed at the release, massaging her poor scalp. She peeked through a curtain of her blonde hair at her waiter—Fergus—then flicked it over her shoulder with purpose.

 

“Fancy a drink?” she asked, snaking her arm through his and steering him to a pub she knew a couple blocks down.

 

They sat at the bar, both ordering whisky.

 

“ _Sláinte,”_ they said, their tumblers clinking at the lip.

 

They each tested the strength and reciprocity of the gravitational pull they felt towards the other, exchanging stories and getting to know one another better. Their arms often brushed against the other, and their palms fluttered down to occasionally squeeze knees, floated upward to caress a shoulder or tease hair. Thighs touched, eyes admired, alcohol burned.

 

At one point, Fergus had taken his hair down, too, flexing the elastic hair band over his wrist. Freed, his hair fell in dark waves, just brushing his shoulders. Marsali had reached out to tug a curl and was rewarded with his hand on the nape of her neck, pulling her towards him, into him. He placed a kiss on her ear, she felt the faintest flick of a tongue. Then he sent her rocking back into her own space.

 

After their second drink, their cheeks deliciously sore from laughter and the tingle of alcohol brightening their eyes, touches became particularly adventurous, instrumental accompaniment to their vocal ministrations.

 

Fergus rested his head on one hand on the bar, gazing at her intently, his other hand using its fingers to graze back and forth, gently, lazily, intently, on the outside of Marsali’s thigh. More intoxicated by his attention than anything else, Marsali’s skin sizzled under the faint touch of his knuckles.

 

“I was stood up,” she admitted, answering his question. She rolled her eyes, trying to play off her embarrassment like no big deal. “Another round?” Her voice came too loud, and the bartender appeared, refilling both whisky glasses.

 

Fergus said nothing, watching her closely, his fingers still moving idly on her bare leg.

 

“It was a long shot, I suppose,” she muttered, absently pressing the Home button on her phone. It lit to show nothing.  

 

Fergus’ hand stilled, calling her attention to him. His eyes were hooded with whisky and dark with desire. “That guy is an idiot.” His voice was a low growl.  

 

She smiled, but only in passing, taking a sip of her drink and folding one leg over the other, breaking the connection between her leg and his hand.

 

“Another cigarette?” he proposed, downing his drink in one gulp and standing, pulling her up with him by the elbows. He pulled out his wallet and placed money on the bar.

 

He was urgent, alive, his movements immediate.  _A cigarette, okay._  With a sense of exhilaration, Marsali gulped down her whisky. She grimaced at the taste, shaking the burn away, threw her clutch’s strap over her shoulder.

 

Fergus tugged her arm, pulling her away from the bar, leading her out of the pub. She stumbled after him, careful in her wedged heels, aiming to step lightly on her blisters.

 

Outside, he dragged her into the darkness of an alleyway.

 

“Fergus, what are ye—” she stammered, but he pushed her back against the brick exterior of the pub, silencing her with a kiss. Catching her head in his hands, tracing her jaw with his thumbs, grazing his teeth against her bottom lip, he pressed his hips into her, intentionally. She gasped in acknowledgement, stood on her tip toes, trying to get her hips flush with his.  _Yes. Dear god. Please._

 

He hummed with approval, lightly jerked her hair with a hand, his lips wandering to her neck and earlobe.  _Yes._

“Your dress makes me want to eat you alive,” he breathed, his voice a whine, a whimper.

Her nails drew circles in his back, her breath coming quick. She yanked at his hair, asking him to meet her again at the lips.  _Yes._ He tasted of city air and smoke and booze. Aphrodisiacs of the night.

 

A hand came down to her thigh, curling softly, teasing against her skin. A reminder of his caresses in the pub. His hand moved up and up, in and in, his fingers a ballet, leaving a trail of goosebumps and shivers. She shuddered in anticipation and arched against him, instinctually opening her legs.

 

 _Dear God. Please_.  _Please._

 

His fingers curled against her inner thigh, a whisper of a touch, so close, so close. She whimpered, bit his lip, nudging her hips against his, the question, the plead, quite clear.  _Please. Yes._ She felt him smile even as she held his lip captive, and he twitched his fingers again. She mewled in protest, setting his mouth free, rubbing her nose against his.

 

He chuckled, ducked into her neck, breathed her in. Pressed his hips against hers, his hand trapped between them.

 

“Dear god,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot, lips lightly touching her.

 

Unable to say anything, propelled outside the bounds of coherent speech by the teasing back and forth, back and forth of his finger, moving ever closer to her panties _. Yes. Please._

 

With a sudden movement, he swiped a finger across her, pressing briefly and rippling softly forward, pressing again on her clit.

 

A bolt shuddered through her and Marsali cried out. Fergus placed a hand over her mouth, catching her mid-breath. “Shh,  _mon chèrie._  Someone will hear.”

 

Her eyes stared at him, over his hand, wide, pleading, willing. He was a shape in the darkness, a silhouette, faceless.

 

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Do you promise to be quiet,  _mon coeur?”_  He nearly withdrew his hand from between her legs, threatening absolute withdrawal.

 

Her tongue darted out, tracing the fingers over her mouth to show her agreement. He held it there, nodding as he gained her quiet, pleading permission.  _Yes._

 

The hand under her dress cupped her, measured her, feeling her warmth and wetness by rolling her in between his fingers. He leaned in and hummed discretely into her hair, announcing his appreciation.

 

He ran two fingers lightly down her buttocks, then moved her panties to the side.

 

Her breath caught in her throat, waiting for it. He paused—it felt like hours. Then, with tantalizing patience, with long-held experience, he touched her, his fingers tracing a complex pattern, designing an intricate engraving, all formed with small, shifting movements, shooting torturous tremors through her body. Slowly, two fingers entered her, his thumb alternating swift and slow against her clit.

 

The sensation seemed to grow, not by degrees, but all at once, past the boundaries of her body.

 

_Dear god. Dear god. Dear god!_

 

Silent prayers, a mortal struggle to stay anchored to earth or else vault away. She yanked recklessly at his hair, her hips rocking, opening, her thighs spreading. She wanted to climb him, claim him, make him feel like this. Could she do it? Would he enjoy it as much?

 

_Please._

 

Perhaps reading her mind, he stilled, lifted his head from her shoulder. His eyes glinted in the headlights of a passing vehicle. She began to undo his belt and his hands disentangled from her, coming to rest on the brick wall on either side of her head. He leaned in for a kiss, deep, sincere, accepting.  _Yes. Please._

 

Not bothering to tease him, she reached in, gripped him, ran her thumb over the tip, forming a swirl. Velvet. Solid. Hot to the touch.

 

He groaned, and she pushed two fingers into his mouth, catching him by surprise. She had him by the cock and by the mouth.

 

She clicked her tongue at him, gently, discretely. “Quiet  _mo ghraidh,”_  she whispered. “Someone will hear us and interrupt us.” She licked the tip of his nose, then grazed it with her teeth.

 

“Do ye promise to be quiet? To have this be our little secret?”

 

He sucked at her fingers in response. She laughed and withdrew her hand, brought it down to where her other worked, slickening him with his own spit. She grinned wickedly as he looked down, watching her work. She cupped him in one hand, kneaded his cock with the other.

 

With the sudden proximity of their bodies, she withdrew, fumbling for the clutch twisted around her back. Quickly, very quickly, she located the condom she packed for tonight in the hopes of a first-date tryst. She tore it open with her teeth, rolled it over him, causing him to hiss a breath out.

 

She kissed him, stood on tip-toe, lifted a leg.  _Yes. Dear God._   _Please_. He grabbed her behind the knee, lifting the leg higher, setting her hips just right. Her hands left him and pulled her panties to the side in invitation. Both paused in exquisite anticipation, looking each other over with hooded eyes.

 

_Yes. Please. Dear god. Please!_

 

She began to say something but was silenced with a firm kiss. He thrusted forward, pausing at the last second, and she feels it.  _Yes! Please! Please! Yes!_

He rolled his hips in a circle, eliciting a quick gasp, and then entered her. She lost all breath completely, and with sporadic gasps she pined for oxygen. But god. Oxygen couldn’t fill her lungs, couldn’t find her blood fast enough. She was light headed, dazed, caught between the pub and Fergus’ chest and hips.

 

He bit her shoulder to muffle his groans of  _please, dear god, yes!_ , keeping pace, keeping count, his body a metronome, fast, slick, quick. Yet they moved in ways only detectable to each other, sharing a secret moment only for them.

 

Could she be hot and cold at the same time? she puzzled, the brick scraping her shoulder blades and hips through her clothing.

 

He brought his head up, pressed his mouth into her ear, whispered her name. His other hand curved around the back of her thigh, his thumb swiping along the roundness of her buttock, mapping her in 3D. The tight dress was rucked up, bunched between them, his body shielding her from prying eyes.

 

The dark alley, the cars that passed, the laughing pedestrians, the hush and rustle of their breath and clothing, all faded into the background.

 

With a sudden rush, Fergus and Marsali met on an ephemeral plane, muscles searing, nerve endings popping and sparking. Flushed, wasted, buzzed, their outside world fuzzy and magnified beyond comprehension. She jolted, quivering, licking and nipping where his throat lay exposed beneath his collar. With a final push, he reached up and grabbed her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and he brought her mouth to his, demanding a deep, slow kiss. His cock pulsed inside her, reverberated through and out.  _Dear god._   _Yes._

 

A few kisses more, and their touches became shier, more hesitant. They pulled apart. Fergus tossed the condom to the side, tucked in his shirt and redid his fly as Marsali adjusted her hem and bra.

 

He coughed awkwardly, then laughed, looking her over as she combed a hand through her mussed hair.

 

Fergus held out a hand to her. “You okay?”

 

She grinned, grasping his extended hand, entwining their fingers. “More than okay.”

 

His smiled widened, then he swooped in for a quick kiss.

 

“I'm no’ usually that bold,” she said against his lips, giggling.

 

He tugged her out onto the street corner, and they each became aware of the public nature of their indiscretion, their clarity returning. “You know,  _ma chère_ , neither am I.”

 

“I wouldna believe that,” she remarked, glancing around, her footsteps reluctant in her heels.

 

“I’ll walk you home.”

 

“Wait,” she called, and he stopped beside her as she braced a hand against a streetlight. She unbuckled her shoes, one by one, sighing with relief. “The streets are gross, I know, but I can’t stand these for another second.”

 

Fergus carried her shoes for her. Holding them in front of his face, he said “I love these. So sexy.” He tapped his free hand against her arse.

 

“You’re only saying that because you’re French, I think,” Marsali replied. “Scottish men don’t seem to care.”

 

He raised a brow at her. “Och, weel,” he mimicked an overexaggerated Scottish accent, making her laugh, then continued in his normal voice, “If your date had arrived as planned—and he is Scottish, no?—we never would have…mmphm?”

 

She chuckled again, pleased with that response. “I live right here, not far from the restaurant at all.” She pointed to a building, and they quickly crossed the street, floated down the sidewalk until they reached the front door. She reached up, pulled him down to her, kissed him until they were both breathless.

 

“Would it be too much if I ask ye to come in?” She palmed his chest.

 

He chuckled, pressed a kiss into her hair. “Hmmm,” he said, and much to her disapproval, pushed her away from him.

 

The door to the building opened, casting them in light, and a loud group of people exited, causing them to jump part. He grabbed at her again when the door closed, pressing her body to his in the darkness.

 

He didn’t leave right away, stealing several more kisses and touches and gasps on the doorstep.

 

Eventually, he said, “I must go,” and left her there, holding her shoes, thrumming with anticipation and frustration. “Tonight’ll be our secret, hm?”

 

A quiet, lonely night. She showered slow, trying to remember everything, commit the waiter-prince to memory. A secret. A stolen moment.

 

In the morning she dressed for a run, slipped down the stairs and opened the door to the stoop. To her astonishment, Fergus stood there, waiting, holding a coffee and donut. He was dressed simply, in jeans and a white t-shirt, a sharp contrast to his fancy work clothes.

 

“Good morning, my little secret,” he said through a smile, leaning in for a kiss.  

 

She hooked a finger in his collar and pulled him up to her flat. The coffee and donut placed on her kitchen counter, forgotten.


End file.
